


the language of love

by ladystark001



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Angst, Assassination Attempt(s), Fluff, Hair as a Love Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Ozai (Avatar) is an Asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25042876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladystark001/pseuds/ladystark001
Summary: Three times Sokka does Zuko's hair, and one time Zuko does Sokka's
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 55
Kudos: 1357





	the language of love

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much what it says on the tin, but if you need some good, old-fashioned hurt/comfort, you have come to the right place

_ one.  _

Being the Fire Lord and fixing a nation comes with a lot more meetings than Zuko could have ever expected after the war ended. He’s been in his study all day, and in half an hour, he has a reparations meeting. 

The politics of it are quite simple: he wants to pay reparations to the other nations, and many of the important people surrounding him don’t. They can’t  _ stop _ him, per say, but they can make his life very, very difficult.

It’s effective. 

Everything feels difficult right now, and two years in, it shouldn’t. It really shouldn’t. He should have established control by now, but still, he struggles; still, he sits at his desk, staring at an entire tree worth of papers on the topic. His arguments swirl in his mind. His head swims. 

Unable to stop himself, Zuko bursts into tears. 

It’s too much—all of it, too much. What was Aang  _ thinking,  _ putting him in charge of a country? None of the other nations wanted to trust him, let alone many of his older advisors, mostly the ones who served his father. Peace, kindness, it all depends on him, and he can’t even get his own advisors to trust him. 

Even in banishment, he’s never felt so alone. It’s worse, now, because he knows he has a host of people he can call to help him—Uncle, Aang and Katara, Toph, Mai or Ty Lee, even Sokka, who’s here, officially as an ambassador, unofficially as a friend—yet he can’t call them. He can’t look weak, like he can’t run his own nation. 

But Agni, he wants their help. 

His tears turn to quiet sobs. He takes his hair down, trying to alleviate his growing headache. He feels woozy, like he’s going to vomit, despite the fact that he hasn’t eaten all day, let alone had water.  _ Weak _ , a voice that sounds a lot like his father’s reminds him.  _ You are weak.  _

Suddenly, the door opens. 

“Zuko!” Sokka bursts in. “Just the man I want to see, I need…” He trails off, eyes wide. “Oh, Spirits, Zuko…”

Shame washes over Zuko—he knows he looks a disaster, his face tear-stained, his eyes red and puffy, his hair everywhere. Sokka will know he’s incompetent; he will know that Zuko can’t handle leadership. He won’t want to be at his side. He will judge him. He will leave, not wanting to be tethered to this sinking boat. 

His ears ring, and his head spins, around and around and around. 

“ _ Zuko _ .” Sokka is kneeling before him, his expression concerned. He brings a cool hand to Zuko’s cheek. “Zuko, please say something.” 

_ Weak. _

_ Failure. _

_ Disgrace. _

Flames sear his skin, he’s screaming in agony, and Sokka will know, Sokka will see what his father saw all those years ago—

“Zuko, please look at me,” Sokka whispers. “Please.” 

Zuko can’t deny him anything. Not even now. 

He meets Sokka’s eye. 

“I can’t do this,” he whispers. “Sokka, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m going to ruin everything. I feel…” He screws his eyes shut. Better to tell Sokka than let him figure out how he’s crumbling.. “Everyone in this meeting is going to fight with me, and I can’t do it. I can’t do it, Sokka. I can’t face them. I’m exhausted. I have a headache. My bending is weaker, my stomach hurts all the time…” He trails off. .

Sokka looks furious. 

“I’m sorry that I’m failing,” Zuko whispers. “I’m sorry I’m not good enough.”

Surprise flickers cross Sokka’s face momentarily, and then…

Then he looks devastated.

“Zuko, you aren’t failing,” Sokka says. “You’re giving all of yourself to your nation, and you’re getting very little in return, right now. That takes a toll. I didn’t realize…” The crease between Sokka’s brow deepens. “I didn’t realize nobody was taking care of you.”

“I can take care of myself,” Zuko whispers. 

“Obviously not the basics!” Sokka rises, exhaling. “You’re as bad as Aang. You need to eat, you probably need to sleep and bathe, you need—”

“Food.” Zuko sniffles and clears his throat. “I haven’t eaten much in the past few days.” 

“Zuko…” Sokka exhales. “Yes. Food. You have to go to this meeting, but we’ll cancel anything else you have for the next three days.”

“Three days! Sokka—”

“ _ Three. Days.  _ Three days of resting. This isn’t friend Sokka saying this, by the way. This is the Sokka who made the Avatar and the most powerful waterbender  _ and  _ earthbender in the world go to the fuck to bed.” Sokka grinns, but then turns somber. “You have to take care of yourself. This nation needs you. I…” Sokka’s cheeks flush, and he shakes his head. “Please, Zuko. Please. For me.” 

And Zuko can’t argue with that. 

He closes his eyes. “Okay.”

Sokka’s face lights up. “Good, good. Let’s get you ready. Sooner the meeting’s over, sooner we can get you relaxing, feet up with a drink in hand.” 

The corners of Zuko’s lips turn upward. “I suppose.”

“That’s the spirit! We have to get you cleaned up.” 

Sokka bites his lip, looking around the room. His eyes light up when he sees a small bowl of water, intended for hand washing. He brings it to the table with a cloth, which he then soaks and wrings out. Zuko’s heart pounds as Sokka raises the cloth, then freezes. 

“Can I?” he asks. 

Zuko manages a small nod. 

Sokka cups Zuko’s face with one hand, and with the other, dabs the cool cloth under his eyes and over his cheeks. He moves Zuko’s hair aside, exceedingly gentle. 

“It’s gotten so long,” Sokka murmurs. “I haven’t seen you with it down in awhile. Pretty.” 

Zuko’s brain short-circuits.

Before he can respond, Sokka’s cheeks flush. “I mean… okay, I’m going to put your hair up for you and stop talking.” 

He stands behind Zuko. Involuntarily, Zuko flinches—recent assassination attempts and a lifetime of being on his guard when people stand behind him. He braces, telling himself it’s only Sokka, but the touch never comes. 

“I need a better angle.” Sokka comes to stand in front of Zuko. Could he have noticed Zuko flinching—noticed that miniscule a reaction? 

“Sokka—” he starts.

“It’s easier from here,” Sokka interrupts, voice soft. 

Zuko swallows hard and nods. He appreciates the accommodation, even if they can’t talk about it. Sokka has his things, too, remnants from the war. They all do. 

Sokka reaches forward and gathers Zuko’s hair into his hands. Zuko tries to breathe normally, even as he feels his cheeks redden upon Sokka’s touch. It shouldn’t have this effect on him—people have done his hair before. Usually, though,  _ people  _ consisted of Uncle or determined servants, old women with strong hands, not Sokka. If the years since the war ended have made Zuko more tired, they have rendered Sokka taller, stronger, more handsome. He’s grown into himself. It makes certain feelings extremely difficult to ignore. 

“There.” Sokka steps back, hands outstretched and eyes narrowed at Zuko’s topknot. For a moment, something sincere flickers in his eyes, but then, he grins. “Go get ‘em, champ.” 

Zuko exhales.

He feels steadier, now, and perhaps braver. 

“Thank you,” Zuko says. 

“It’s no problem.” 

“I mean it, Sokka.”  _ Braver,  _ he reminds himself. “You… you’re always here for all of us. For me. I… I don’t know what I would do. You’re so good at… helping me.” 

Sokka’s eyes widen. Zuko thinks he’s gone too far, but then Sokka smiles, softer and more sincere than usual. That does more to settle his stomach than anything else could.

“Go,” he says. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

Zuko believes him. 

_ two.  _

When Zuko returns to his bedroom for the night, he’s greeted with Sokka lounging on his _ —their— _ bed, a grin across his face. 

“Hi, honey,” Sokka says. “How was your day.”

Zuko flops face down onto the bed and groans into the covers.

“That good, huh?” Sokka lays down atop him, a welcome weight. “I mean, between the meetings, and the arguing nobles, and political crises, and the—”

He rolls over, throwing Sokka off him.  _ “Sokka.” _

“I know.” Sokka steals a kiss. “The thrilling life of the Fire Lord, right?” 

The kiss brings a welcome smile to Zuko’s face—perhaps the first time he’s smiled all day, but it’s also the first time he’s seen Sokka since this morning, when they woke. He’s reminded, once again, why dating Sokka is the best choice he’s made in ages. 

(He’s also reminded why today was a difficult day in the first place)

(With it being Ozai’s birthday and all)

Zuko groans and stands, stripping himself of the ornate breastplate and other armor until he’s standing in only loose-fitting pants. He’s exhausted, and the full weight of that settles in as he sits in the vanity chair, needing to brush his hair for the night. He expects Sokka to continue chattering, but instead, his boyfriend goes silent, staring at him. 

“What?” Zuko asks.

“I wanted…” Sokka rubs the back of his neck, awkward. “I was wondering… can I brush your hair for you?”

Zuko’s breath hitches. He and Sokka have done a number of intimate things (a  _ lot _ ), but somehow, this feels more serious. It will require having his back turned to Sokka, which is still an exercise in trust. It will allow Sokka a level of control, even if the activity is innocent. It will require vulnerability—and vulnerability is still a precarious thing for him. 

“You can say no,” Sokka says in a rush. “I know you’re, like, very protective of your hair, and I get if you don’t want me messing around with it, but it’s very pretty, and it’s self-indulgent, but I like taking care of you, and—”

“Okay,” Zuko says, cutting off Sokka’s rambling. 

Yes, vulnerability is precarious, but this is Sokka. Zuko can put in the work for him.

Sokka undoes the topknot, and Zuko’s hair spills over his bare back and shoulders. He keeps his eyes lowered, feeling his cheeks flush as Sokka massages his shoulders. 

“Hey, jerk,” Sokka says. “Are you just going to stare at your own lap?” 

Zuko looks up to see Sokka smiling in the mirror. Sokka tucks a strand of hair behind Sokka’s hair, his expression soft. 

“What?” Zuko asks, twisting to look Sokka in the eye. 

It’s Sokka’s turn to flush. “Nothing.”

Zuko narrows his eyes. “Sokka.”

“Zuko,” Sokka mocks, turning Zuko’s shoulder toward the mirror again. 

He runs the comb through Zuko’s hair over and over, hands impossibly gentle. Zuko’s breath hitches, but he settles in. 

There aren’t many people he would trust to see him like this, sans shirt, sans pretense, but with Sokka, there’s no need for armor. Sokka has proven that a thousand times over throughout the years. Without him, Zuko knows he would get lost in his title and all the duties that accompany it.

“You’re so beautiful,” Sokka says softly. 

Zuko blinks, surprised.  _ Beautiful?  _ Nobody has ever used that word to describe him. Not with half his face engulfed in red and firework scar tissue exploding across his chest; not when he’s all stiff lines and rigidity. 

“Me?” Zuko blurts. 

Sokka scoffs. “Yeah, dummy. Who else would I be talking about? Myself in the mirror?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you!” 

“Zuko.” Sokka moves between Zuko and the mirror. He and Mai used to call each other pet names, part of their elaborate pantomime of starstruck lovers. Sokka only uses his name, but infuses it with all the care in the world. It warms Zuko more than the fire inside him. “You are incredibly beautiful.” 

He looks away, a lump rising in his throat.  _ Beautiful.  _ Zuko thinks of himself as war-torn, shattered and cobbled back together. Not beautiful. Yet Sokka touches Zuko’s face, the side with the scar. 

“I don’t think so,” Zuko says. 

“That’s why I’m the brains of this operation.” 

Still, there’s a bitter taste in Zuko’s mouth, along with the weight today holds. “I look like my father.”

Sokka scoffs and continues combing. “I’ve seen your father, and I’ve seen you. Trust me, no comparison.” 

“You saw my father  _ years  _ ago. You can’t remember.” 

Sokka tenses, just noticeable. “Yeah. Years ago.” 

Zuko turns and narrows his eyes. “Why are you lying?”

“I, uh…” Sokka puts the comb down, then comes to lean on the vanity in front of Zuko. He rubs the back of his neck. “So you know that trip I went on a few weeks ago? I made a  _ slight  _ detour at the, um, prison where your dad is being held. To see him.” 

“You did  _ what _ ?” 

Zuko expects Sokka to shift into deflect-and-joke mode. Instead, Sokka turns steely. Zuko tries to imagine it: Sokka approaching the cell with the strength of a warrior, looking over Ozai from the outside. 

“What… why?” Zuko manages. 

“I had to know.”

“Know what, Sokka?”

Sokka is silent. It only makes Zuko’s nerves more frayed.

“Know that I didn’t look like him?” Zuko leans forward, heart pounding. It’s easier to tell himself that he’s angry rather than afraid. What could Sokka have wanted with  _ Ozai?  _ “Know that I’m not like him? Know—”

“That he can’t hurt you anymore!” Sokka’s eyes flash. “Your past is your past, but he…” His voice catches. “He caused you so much pain, Zuko, and I had to know that if it came down to it, I could keep you safe. I wanted him to look at me, _me,_ wearing Fire Nation colors, and know that everything he stood for was gone, and realize you’re protected.” 

Zuko stares. He thinks he should be angry. Instead, his mouth goes dry, and he can’t breathe. “Did he…” He inhales, steadying himself. “Did he talk to you?”

“Oh, yeah, Mister Ozai had plenty to say, but I just let it roll right off me. Like water.  _ Water Tribe.”  _ Sokka’s lips quirk upward before he turns serious again. “I am sorry, though, for going without telling you.” 

“I’m not angry.” He can’t remember the last time someone cared for him so openly, and it makes him grateful for the life he has built, for the people he has found. “Not at all.”

Sokka nods, quiet, then goes back to brushing Zuko’s hair. Once it’s free of knots and tangles, Sokka brushes it aside to kiss the nape of Zuko’s neck. Zuko shivers and gasps as Sokka’s lips travel over his bare shoulder.  _ Nobody else _ , he thinks.  _ Nobody else.  _

“I know you’ll always keep me safe,” Zuko murmurs. “I trust you, Sokka.” 

_ I love you, I love you, I love you _ . 

The comb falls to the ground, they stumble and fall onto the bed, and the night blurs. 

_ three. _

Before, they’d fought. 

They didn’t fight often. Bicker, yes—for Sokka, Zuko has learned, bickering comes as easy as breathing—but not fight.

Yet the other night, they’d fought about their respective workloads and not spending enough time together and a selection of other things; Sokka had stormed off to bed, and Zuko had gone to the study to finish some work alone, despite the fact they’d planned to do as much while together. 

Three hours later, a group of assassins had beaten Zuko and driven a knife between his ribs. Zuko had dragged the blade from his stomach and fought them off, then collapsed into a pool of his own blood. 

Now, nearly two days later, he’s returning to his own rooms, Sokka at his side.

Zuko is in immense pain. 

Sokka is silent, so quiet it’s almost tangible. 

There’s a divide between them.

Room sweet room.” Sokka claps his hands. “What can I do for you? What do you need? Are you hungry? I can get some food for you, I can—”

“A bath,” Zuko interrupts. Sokka’s spiraling with nervous energy, he can tell, an old-seeded need to be useful. Zuko doesn’t need him to be useful (and Sokka is more than useful to him, he is important, he is  _ everything).  _ He needs  _ him.  _ “Will you help me?”

He hopes Sokka recognizes what he’s really saying:  _ I only trust you to do this.  _

Sokka swallows hard and nods. He’s quiet, so quiet, even as he helps Zuko undress, and Zuko hates his silence.

Zuko allows Sokka to help him into the tub, then sinks into the warm water. Sokka strips, settling into the tub but not touching him.  _ Talk to me _ , he wills.  _ We have to talk about this.  _ But neither one of them have ever been good at confronting their feelings head-on; it will take a roundabout method to get Sokka to open up. 

“Wash my hair?” Zuko says. 

Sokka makes a choked noise, but exhales. “Okay.” 

Zuko prays this will work. Sokka washes his hair a lot, and Zuko does the same for him. It tethers them. There are few people Zuko would allow to see him this vulnerable, even fewer he would turn his back to while his eyes were closed. 

Sokka tips warm water over Zuko’s head. 

_ Yet here I am.  _ He’s naked, weakened from the assassination attempt, and Sokka’s fingers are working shampoo through his long hair, his nails digging into Zuko’s scalp. Vulnerability is a choice, and tonight, he will choose it without second thought.

Still, he closes his eyes. 

_ Without second thought _ does not mean without fear. 

“I’m not mad at you,” he whispers. 

Sokka’s hands falter. Zuko keeps his eyes shut. 

“I know we fought, before,” Zuko continues. “And I know you were meant to be in the study, too. I know.” 

_ Keep going _ , Zuko tells himself.

“But Sokka…”

He pauses. Water cascades over his head, once, twice, three times. 

“They were loyal to my father. Sokka, they would have killed you.” He opens his eyes, looking over his shoulder. Sokka’s eyes are wide, wrecked. “I couldn’t survive that.”

Sokka’s entire face screws up. Zuko thinks he’s said something wrong, and he does a few things at once—prepares to backtrack, braces for another argument, wills Sokka to make a joke and for this entire thing to blow over.

Yet Sokka begins to cry.

_ Oh _ , Zuko thinks. 

Maybe he’s miscalculated.

“It’s my fault,” Sokka says. “I don’t care what you say, Zuko, I should have been with you. I only came because I wanted to argue more, but then I saw…” He makes a choked noise. “You were so pale, baby, and there was so much blood, and you looked so small, and I thought… I thought you’d become another person I couldn’t protect.” 

Despite the pain, Zuko turns so he can hold Sokka as he cries. Sokka sobs into his shoulder for a long time; by the time he stops, the bath has gone cold. Zuko warms it with a swirl of his hand, and Sokka wipes his eyes. Zuko’s heart aches upon seeing Sokka’s hair plastered to his blotchy face. 

“I’m okay,” Zuko whispers. “I’m here.” 

He brings one of Sokka’s hands to his hair, the other to his wrist, where he can feel Zuko’s pulse. 

“You feel that?” Zuko asks as Sokka’s grip tightens. “We had a fight, Sokka, and something bad happened. But I don’t blame you. I trust you, and I need you at my side.”

Sokka’s face screws up. Zuko thinks he will start crying again, but instead, Zuko finds himself gathered into Sokka’s arms, pressed into his chest. Sokka clings to him, his entire body trembling, and Zuko allows himself to be held. His eyes flutter shut. He’s exhausted. 

Zuko meets Sokka’s g aze. Guilt clings to Sokka like ice; Zuko wishes he could melt it away as easily as he warmed the bathwater. 

“You found me,” Zuko says. “You knew I was in trouble. You saved my life, Sokka.”

For the first time since Zuko woke up after the attempt, Sokka smiles. “That’s what I’m here for,” he says. “Life saving and hair-washing.” 

Zuko matches his grin. 

They’ll be okay.

_ plus one.  _

Zuko has brought Sokka home. 

For years, they have put off visiting the South Pole together, mostly because the politics of restructuring a nation didn’t leave much free time for vacations. Sokka, as the ambassador, visited his home in the Southern Water Tribe, but Zuko was never able to accompany him, and sending Sokka away always came with a particular type of pain. 

This time, they’re together. 

Not for the first time, Zuko finds himself in awe of Sokka. 

Here, Sokka shines—Zuko doesn’t think he knows how brightly. The children hang onto Sokka’s every word, their peers try to mimic how he acts, and the old people nod sagely as he speaks world politics. Hakoda watches proudly the entire time, lips upturned. Sokka’s clothes make his eyes look more blue than usual, and with furs draped across him at all times, he looks taller, broader. He’s charismatic, handsome, and Zuko knows, as surely as he knows fire, as surely that he knows he must breathe, that he loves Sokka. 

Zuko considers this during a celebration feast—a celebration for him, which still makes him feel awkward after all these years. He stays close to the fire, bundled in layers upon layers of furs, listening to music thump along as the moon rises higher. Alcohol flows freely, and a healthy flush colors Sokka’s cheeks. Zuko smiles to himself. Sokka has been working too hard, and Zuko wanted to give him a chance to unwind with this trip. 

His good mood, though, is somewhat soured when he sees Hakoda scrutinizing him. Zuko turns his eyes toward his lap. After all this time, he hasn’t  _ quite _ won over Hakoda. He understands—he is one of the reasons, after all, his son isn’t at the South Pole all the time, and plus, he’s Fire Nation—the Fire  _ Lord _ , which is pretty damn hard to ignore. 

“He’s just protective of me and Katara!” Sokka had insisted once. 

He didn’t mention that Aang never received the same judgement. 

“ _ Zukoooooooooooo _ !”

Zuko briefly registers his name being called in a way only his boyfriend can before he gets a lapful of Sokka. He freezes. They’re never this affectionate in public, but Sokka nuzzles his face into Zuko’s neck. 

“ _ Zukooooo,” _ he says again. “You’re cold.” 

Ah. Sokka is very drunk, Zuko realizes. 

“You’re never cold,” Sokka continues. “That’s weird. It’s weird that you’re cold, Zuko. You’re always warm, Zuko. Can you make some fire, Zuko? Maybe breathe it? Am I saying your name too much, Zuko?” 

Zuko chuckles. “I don’t mind.” 

“Good. I like your name.  _ Zuuuuukooooooooooo.”  _ He wiggles closer. Zuko tries not to think about Hakoda’s watchful gaze. “I think it’s really hot when you breathe fire,” he whispers. 

For the first time that night, Zuko feels his cheeks warm. He smiles, pulling back to look at Sokka, and his grin only widens. Sokka’s hair has fallen from his wolftail, and frames his face. 

“I have a problem,” Sokka says very seriously.

“You do?” Zuko whispers.

He nods, again very seriously. “I don’t remember how to do my hair.”

“Sokka.” Zuko takes his hands. “You have done your hair in the same style since you were fifteen.” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you telling me—”

“Yes.”

“—that you  _ don’t remember?”  _

“Yes.” Sokka’s eyes go wide and watery. “It’s a big problem, Zuko.”

Oh, he is  _ so  _ drunk. Zuko kisses his forehead and nudges Sokka off his lap. 

“I wanna sit with you,” Sokka says.

“Do you want me to do your hair?”

“Yes!” Sokka exclaims, whooping. 

Zuko brushes Sokka’s hair back with his fingers. It will be messy, but it will do. He’s done Sokka’s hair more times than he can count, especially before big events where Sokka wants to look, quote,  _ polished and official and fiery,  _ end quote. It feels more special doing it now, somehow, where Sokka is relaxed and among his people. 

He fixes the strands so that the shaved sides of Sokka’s heads are exposed, then ties back the wolftail firmly. Sokka giggles.

“What’s so funny?” Zuko asks.

“You’re really good at this,” Sokka says. “You do good hair.” He scrunches up his nose. “Good hair. No. Hair good. You do hair good.” 

Zuko laughs.  _ Agni,  _ he loves him,  _ he loves him.  _

“Go,” Zuko urges. “Keep celebrating.” 

Sokka kisses him, deep and slow. “I love you,” he says, so sincerely it pains Zuko. “I love you so much, Zuko. You’re so pretty and I love you being here. Did I say that I love you?” 

“You did, and I love you.” 

Zuko kisses his nose, and Sokka giggles before running off to join the celebration again. He’s so engrossed in watching Sokka that he barely notices Hakoda come to his side and sit. 

“You and Sokka have been together for a long time, now,” Hakoda says. 

Zuko clears his throat. “Yes. I, um, we have.”

“But it’s the first time  _ you  _ have come here.”

“I’m ashamed of that,” Zuko admits. “I’ve wanted to come in the past, but…” He doesn’t want to make excuses. “I’m here now.”

“You are.” Hakoda makes a low noise. “I didn’t like you at first.”

Zuko  _ knew it.  _ He’d  _ told  _ Sokka that Hakoda didn’t like him. Being right doesn’t bring him any happiness, though. His throat tightens as he prepares to defend himself. 

“I know better, now,” Hakoda continues. Zuko freezes. “My boy, he’s so used to taking care of everyone, to being a warrior. First Katara, and then the village, and then the Avatar… I’m glad he has somebody who will take care of him.” Hakoda smiles. “He doesn’t let just anyone do his hair.” 

“Sir…” Zuko swallows hard. He has so many things to say, so many promises to make.

Hakoda, though, only smiles. “Go celebrate with him, Fire Lord Zuko.”

“Just Zuko, please.”

“Then just Hakoda.” 

They stare at each other, then shake hands. Hakoda’s smile widens.

“Celebrate, Zuko.” 

And Zuko does.    
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! Kudos and comments make my heart sing :-)


End file.
